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Initially disappointed in just the one pregnancy, an old-time rancher at the Meraton market had set Bishop straight. “Bovine are skittish creatures. You’ve introduced them to a new environment. You’re lucky to have one seed take root. Patience, my friend, patience.”
    And then there was hunting, or more appropriately, the lack thereof.
    The Texan had grown up in the area, scouted the surrounding mountains and valleys throughout his youth. Even after moving to Houston as a younger man, he’d returned to the ranch periodically, spending a week roaming the hills and harvesting the occasional deer. In all those years, he’d never seen such a lack of game.
    He supposed it was due to people having to hunt for food. He’d read somewhere that during the Great Depression, a few species of White-tail deer had been hunted to extinctio n . Folks had to eat.
    Then there was the competition introduced by his herd. He’d observed both species grazing on the same plants. Even the local jackrabbits dined at the same green-counter. Perhaps his cattle were driving the other animals away to lusher pasture.
    Bishop entered the RV, opening the fridge and pouring a cup of cold water. The drink reminded him of the need to repair the shaft on the windmill pump in the south canyon. He’d get on that in the morning.
    A quick shower and scrub with homemade soap left him feeling a little better. He did have air conditioning. He didn’t have to carry a rifle with him every moment of the day. He wasn’t worried about Terri and Hunter’s safety. Things could be worse… things had been worse.
    “After I fix the well pump, I’ll go higher into the mountains tomorrow afternoon. I bet the rain will bring the deer down, and maybe I’ll have some venison when Terri gets back,” he whispered to the empty camper.
    He stretched out on the bed, forcing the worries of the day from his mind. Terri would be back in two days, and he’d welcome her home with fresh meat and a garden that was beginning to produce. It would all be okay.
    Before sleep came, his mind drifted back to his childhood on the ranch. At the time, he’d thought his father had been a gruff, old worrier, never able to relax or enjoy life. The man had possessed little sense of humor, and even less tolerance for the “wasteful activities,” of recreation or fun. Bishop couldn’t remember his dad ever reading a book or going to see a movie at the Alpha Bijou . The demands of ranch life did not allow for vacations or frivolous trips out of town.
    For years, Bishop had written off his father’s outlook as a product of scars from the Vietnam War, but now, older and wiser, the Texan had his doubts about that conclusion.
    It seemed like every day his thoughts would drift back to old memories of the lessons that the father had tried to instill in the son. Work ethic, honesty, ability to get along with other men, how to fight, and knowing when it was better to run.
    It seemed like there was always a conflict between the two of them. Bishop was adventurous, curious, and easily distracted. His father made every attempt to hammer home the skills and knowledge that could be used in the real world, often frustrated by his son’s interest in places and people far away from the desolate, West Texas ranch.
    “You need to learn about livestock, the economics of ranching, and how the cost of feed makes the difference between beans for supper or steak,” his dad would preach. “You can’t call a vet for every sick animal – the bills would eat up a year’s profit in a month. Knowing how to run a fence can save a man hundreds in the cost of wire and posts. Learning when to sell and when to hold your stock means money in your pocket and food on the table. Get your head out of the clouds, boy. The only thing we know will be here tomorrow is the land. Learn to live off of it, and you’ll be a better man for the effort.”
    It had all seemed so harsh to young Bishop. He saw magazines and pictures